Vale House felt alive that night, and not in a way Elma liked.
The corridors were too quiet, the air too heavy. Even the chandeliers seemed dimmer, their light swallowed by shadows that clung to the corners like secrets. The leash around her throat pulsed faintly with every step, an unspoken reminder that she was never out of his reach.
She held her sleeve tight against her arm, where the shard's faint hum vibrated against her bones. It wasn't glowing tonight. Not outwardly. But she could feel it—like a heartbeat syncing with her own, a pulse that whispered warnings she couldn't quite understand.
Calista walked a step ahead, her gown trailing like smoke on the marble. She was every inch the queen tonight, her mask flawless, her back straight. But Elma caught the tiny tells—the way her fingers brushed the folds of her skirt when she thought no one was looking, the faint stiffness in her shoulders. She felt it too.
The house was holding its breath.
They entered the council chamber, where Nitron Vale sat at the head of the long obsidian table. No fire burned in the hearth. The chill in the air felt deliberate, designed to bite at skin and nerves.
"Sit," Nitron said.
Elma obeyed, her movements smooth, controlled. Calista settled across from him, porcelain mask firmly in place. Kade stood in the shadows by the door, his silver eyes reflecting the dim light.
Nitron's gaze swept over them both like a predator choosing which prey to toy with.
"Rumors," he said softly. "They spread quickly. They say Thorn is growing restless. They say Vale has… cracks."
His eyes locked on Elma. The leash tightened, a warning pulse that made her jaw clench.
"Tell me," Nitron said, his voice still calm, still polite. "Do you believe it?"
Elma met his gaze without flinching. "If there are cracks, Master, you're the one who put them there."
The room went silent. Even Kade tilted his head slightly, a flicker of interest in his otherwise unreadable expression.
Nitron's lips curved—not into a smile, but something colder. "Clever answer."
He stood, moving toward her with slow, deliberate steps. "But cleverness is not loyalty."
The leash burned, sharp enough to make her eyes water. She didn't look away.
Nitron leaned close enough that his breath chilled her ear. "Prove you're still mine."
The shard pulsed violently against her wrist, a soft blue glow bleeding through her sleeve. Nitron's gaze flicked to it, and for a heartbeat, something like recognition—or suspicion—darkened his expression.
But then he straightened, his composure snapping back into place. "Later," he said. "For now, you'll keep the donors in line."
He turned to Calista, who hadn't moved. "And you, wife," he said softly. "Make sure they remember who this house belongs to."
Calista's lips curved into a perfect smile. "Of course, my love."
After the meeting, Calista and Elma walked together in silence down a dim corridor, the sound of their footsteps swallowed by the heavy air.
"That was close," Elma murmured.
Calista's hand brushed hers briefly, so fleeting it could've been an accident. "He's watching us both."
"Good," Elma said, smirking faintly. "Means we're getting under his skin."
"Or he's about to kill us," Calista said flatly.
Elma chuckled. "That too."
They stopped near the east balcony, where moonlight spilled through tall glass windows. Calista's composure cracked slightly, her shoulders dropping, her breath slowing.
"I hate pretending to love him," she whispered.
"I hate pretending to serve him," Elma said.
Their eyes met, and for a moment the leash burned—not as punishment, but as a reminder. They couldn't touch. Couldn't kiss. Couldn't even brush hands without paying in pain.
But the tension between them was a promise all the same.
"Soon," Elma said softly.
Calista nodded, though her eyes were shadowed. "Soon."
That night, Elma returned to her chambers and set the shard on the table. Its glow was faint, but its hum was louder than ever, like a whisper she couldn't ignore.
She sat on the edge of the bed, staring at it. "What do you want from me?"
The shard pulsed. Once. Twice. The sigils shifted, rearranging themselves into a faint image—a key, the same one she'd seen before.
And then a whisper slid into her mind, soft and clear.
"Shadows know where chains are forged."
Elma froze.
The shard's glow dimmed again, as if it had said all it meant to say.
A chill ran through her spine. She turned, sensing movement.
Nitron stood in the doorway.
He didn't knock. Didn't speak. He just leaned against the frame, watching her with a gaze that felt like knives.
Elma's pulse quickened, but she didn't let it show.
"Something wrong, Master?" she asked.
Nitron's lips curved faintly. "No. Just wondering what keeps you awake at night."
His gaze flicked to the shard, and Elma felt the leash tighten like a noose.
She forced a smile. "Just thinking."
Nitron's expression didn't change. "Careful with that. Thinking too much is dangerous."
And with that, he left, the door closing softly behind him.
Elma exhaled slowly.
The shard pulsed again, faint and insistent.
They were running out of time.